Grim, page 15
together forever,” she declared, “though
I will miss your company, dearest K.
Thank you for brightening my days.
Return to your village, where, I suspect,
a happy homecoming awaits you.”
Cloaked in a fine warm mantle of love,
Greta and K left the palace, hand in hand.
The air was sharp, and the light low,
but K paused to promise, “I’ll never again
leave your side.” At the bush with red berries
stood the reindeer and his own mate, ready
to carry the couple home, under the protection
of angels and before the roses bloomed.
* * * * *
BEAST/BEAST
by Tessa Gratton
I
The first time I attempted to escape from the Beast’s castle was under cover of flat, fierce rain. It soaked through the layers of wool and velvet I’d traveled here wearing, the hem now tattered and ruined, all sweat- and tearstained from two days in the attic. Dust streaked into mud along my cheeks. Hair clung to my skull, and my finger bones ached in the cold.
I ran straight to the gate, glad of my hardy riding boots to splash through the puddles and miniature rivers forming along the broad avenue. The sluice of rain obscured the world, melting everything.
Massive iron gates rose so fast I skidded through the slick gravel to stop. I grasped the bars, pulling with my weight, grinding my teeth. Nothing. I wiped water from my eyes to hunt for a lever or lock. Nothing. The hinges were solid, smooth iron. I saw no grooves in the earth. Had the gates even opened when I was dragged through? I could not recall.
My dull, frozen fingers barely obeyed as I untied my bootlaces, then discarded the boots. The wall was built of heavy granite blocks half my height with narrow grooves between. I caught my fingers into one and dug my toes in, but there was no good purchase in the rain.
I tried and tried again. Thunder shook the air. I will not cry. Even when the skin of my fingers and palms was raw and stinging, I refused.
The ninth—tenth—I don’t know!—time I fell into the freezing mud, I lay back and screamed at the low black clouds.
Mud melded to my back, and I rolled away heavily, dragging myself to the wall. I huddled there, arms on my knees, facedown and sheltered enough from the rain for hot tears to gather on my lashes. Water filled my nose and I swallowed it, choking, fighting its weight.
The Beast found me there.
I did not know what he was yet, and could see only the impression of his bulk in the dark, watery night. He said nothing, but loomed until the rain died and dawn lit the east. He turned his face away from it and waved me to come. I stood without aid and watched as he lumbered back toward the castle. Exhaustion compelled me to follow.
II
The second night I tried to escape was clear and full of moonlight. I ran through the topiary forest and the wilderness garden toward the north curve of the wall. Everything was dry and crisp with shadows. I had no boots on, but slippers; no wool, but layers of silk and fine linen: a dress from the closet in the opulent room the Beast had given me.
Moonlight aided my search for hand- and footholds, but the wall there was no less forbidding. I left blood smeared down the pale granite.
That time I did not cry.
III
It’s because of a rose I’m trapped here. I asked Father for one before he left, bitterly, to remind him I existed, to remind him of my mother, who had grown ghostly white roses along the fence of our city house.
He brought home nothing but that single red rose, stuck to his palm by the thorns. Fever-pink burned his cheeks as he offered it to me, and my half sisters groaned as they turned away. I took it.
Only, the thorns bit into my fingers and refused to tear free. I cried out at the blood weeping from my palm and my father did, too, triumphantly. He was free.
A spell—a compulsion—wove about me like vines, drawing me onto the strange black horse stamping at the dirt path before our house. I rode like the devil through a day and a night until the black gates and blacker castle appeared. My will returned to me as we passed through the rose garden and the bloodred rose fell away. I screamed as a great wind lifted me, dragging me through the castle, down corridors, through vast halls. Massive doors slammed. Lights flashed on before me and off behind, whispers gossiped hurriedly about my name, my hair, my boots and cape. But there were no faces, no creatures or people I could see.
The magic flung me into a tower room, dusty, but with a bed, a desk and toilet, three wide round windows curtained in faded violet. The door locked behind me and no matter how I pounded, no matter how I screamed, I was trapped.
IV
For the first two nights the Beast spoke to me through the door. His deep voice shook the wood, pulsing in time with my heart.
He offered me food but I cried vows of murder and violence, swore to escape, to be free of this place and him.
I did not know what he was yet.
On the third night the door clicked open. The corridor was empty. I ran out into the rain.
V
He led me inside after, both of us soaking, into a fine bedroom lacking the dust and grime of the attic tower. He left me there, behind an unlocked door, ruined and too weary for questions and demands. Too tired to look at his face.
Silk rugs layered over the cold stone floor, and there were more pillows than I could use in a month. I stripped out of the wet, torn riding habit and accepted a nightgown that hung in the air as if held by a ghost. The silk warmed my skin, and I fell into limp exhaustion even as many invisible hands combed my hair.
VI
It was my third escape attempt when I saw him, full-on in the light.
I thought perhaps under the sun I might discover handholds or secret crannies leading to freedom. The light bled harsh and silver over the stone wall, revealing only smooth lines, and none of the streaks of blood from my first or second attempt. They’d faded or washed off in the rain, or had very, very painstakingly been rubbed away by the hands of invisible servants.
I tilted my chin to look up at the bluest sky possible. Nothing marred it, no stray clouds, no bird or wind with a clutch of leaves fluttering past. Only vast, glowing blue.
“Girl,” he said from behind me. “Come back inside. Eat. You’ll never climb it shaking with hunger.”
It made me smile, then choke on a laugh. Near hysteria, I slid down to the thick carpet of grass, tears dripping straight from my lashes onto the manicured green.
My stomach trembled for the first time in a day; my eyeballs pulsed with my heartbeat. I did need food, and drink. My blood flowed thick and sluggish. But accepting his food would be accepting my prison.
I turned my face and peeked at him. The sun flooded his body, allowing for no shadows or gentle, gradual reveal.
The Beast was a monster of flesh and fur and forest: fangs curled like tusks through his bottom lip, his arms were green as fresh vegetables and twisted with vines. Thorns pushed out through the elbows of his tattered velvet coat, from his crooked fingers like claws and in a fierce line down either cheekbone. Those eyes were dark, pupils slit like a cat’s, his shoulders humped like a buffalo’s, nose wide and flared, and his coarse hair tangled as though wet. A great orange fungus circled one wrist like a gauntlet. One foot was cloven and the other clawed into the grass like a tiger’s. He would never be graceful. Lichen dripped down one side of his face, pulling his features down so he appeared to melt even as he towered over me.
And red rose petals clung to him, blossoming from his neck like sores.
I might have stared at him forever if he hadn’t shied away. That thick hair swung over his face, and he pressed his fists into the hard edges of his hips. “Come, girl,” he rumbled.
VII
“What are you?” I asked as I discarded a chicken bone and reached for a bowl of orange soup that smelled of cinnamon and cloves and the comforts of home. My mother used to make something like it with pumpkins. This porcelain burned my fingers but I gripped harder, welcoming the sharp pain.
At the far end of the dining table, he hunkered in a throne large enough for a bear. I sensed his head shake rather than saw it. All the candles that side of the room had blown out the moment he entered. “No one thing,” he murmured.
I saluted with the bowl. “So a man.”
The Beast snorted, very much like a displeased stallion.
I shrugged and drank my soup, focused on the heat as it slipped over my tongue and down my throat, landing like love in my stomach. Warmth radiated through my chest.
“I don’t know your name,” he said.
“Neither do I know yours.”
“Beast. Only Beast.”
“That isn’t a name.”
He did not reply.
“Call me Prisoner, then, if we’re being literal.” I thunked the bowl down and thoughtfully slid my fingers along the silver knife at the place setting.
“Beauty,” the Beast said. “For that is what you are.”
It was my turn to snort. Not ladylike. Not beautiful.
“Will you love me, Beauty?” the Beast asked, shocking my fingers numb. “Will you marry me?”
I pushed violently. “No.”
He whispered, “Good night,” as I fled.
VIII
This became our pattern:
I rose and dressed in the morning, ate some little cheese and cold meat, then walked the grounds, hunting for escape.
The gardens were set like a wheel; the castle the hub, each spoke a path. Between them were triangles of nature. The wilderness garden, the topiary forest with its elephants and dragons and hearts, the garden of statues, the fruit orchard, the proper manicured garden full of tiny peonies and marigolds and tulips.
And of course the rose garden.
That was where he most often joined me, appearing like a shadow when the sun was high enough.
The roses were wild, though some attempt had been made to train them over trestles and benches and statues. They were all sorts of pinks and reds and creamy yellows; normal, natural colors, except when twilight fell they glowed as if they caught up bits of the sunlight to hold.
It was days before we spoke in the garden. I stopped to touch the velvet petal of a pale yellow rose, so delicately colored it seems almost translucent.
“A Ray of Dawn,” the Beast said quietly.
My fingers jerked.
“Her name. It’s the rose’s name.”
“And what do you call the rose that trapped me here?” I asked in an even voice that belied the tumult beating in my chest.
He hesitated before rumbling a sigh and saying, “The Promise Kiss.”
I stalked out of the garden.
Often I left him there, suddenly furious. I’d go to the library or the roof, to drown myself in the lives and thoughts of others, or to stare out over the black forest, despairing that the only escape would be death.
Always I dined with him.
Always he asked, “Will you marry me, Beauty?”
Always I reacted badly.
It took the soothing fingers of ghosts braiding my hair, tying up a nightgown, washing my hands, before I calmed enough to sleep in that soft, feathery bed. I listened to their whispers as I drifted off, but ghosts never say anything useful, or in a language I understand.
IX
I knew every step of the wall by the end of my first month. There were no secret latches. No crumbling footholds. No egress.
X
“Beauty,” he called down the massive curve of staircase.
I stopped in the entryway and turned slowly. There he stood on the landing, a black shadow against the rich blue carpet and hanging tapestries. I snapped, “It’s such a shallow thing, beauty. And I only am beautiful compared to you.”
His hunched shoulders lifted in either a shrug or sigh. One broad paw touched the pillar beside him, thorn-claws gouging the stone. “Beauty is…a challenge. It pushes up through winter earth and unfurls into a flower. It chases the nighttime away with a glorious sunrise. Beauty reaches out and puts its fingers around your heart.”
My own heart thudded, and I couldn’t help but press my hands there, eyes fluttering down. I warmed all over and became incensed with myself. How dare I appreciate such a compliment from my jailer!
I didn’t wait to learn why he’d called me, but charged outside.
XI
One night I asked, “How long will you keep me here?”
He said, “Until you break the curse.”
“Curse!” I spat. “Open the gate. Let me go.”
“I cannot. It isn’t the part I’m allowed.”
“And what, then, sir, is your part?”
“Will you marry me, Beauty?”
“Why would I do that?” I left, but hid in a deep recess in the hall, where a statue of a frolicking faun took up most of the space. The Beast passed, silent, but in that rolling gait caused by mismatched feet. I traced his progress, following soft and evenly behind him. Up the staircase he went, past the library and past the hall of mirrors, to a tower stair much like the one I’d first been dragged through. I paused at the bottom, for he would know I came now.
The constant anger simmering deep in my stomach popped, effervescing up my chest and neck, making me drunk with it. I put a foot on the first step, and the next. The soft slippers whispered against bare stone. Once the hall light faded it was dark as a moonless night, for the Beast tolerated no candles. Does light hurt your eyes? I had asked him, and he’d replied, It hurts yours. I skimmed a hand along the cool wall as I ascended.
At least three stories up, the stairs widened, opening doorlessly into a landing. It was circular and lit only by the starlight that soaked the milky glass of the tall windows. Bare of furniture, the room contained only a rug and plain patterned tapestries hanging between the windows. A soft yellow glow beckoned me through a doorway with several stones pried out of its arch. The Beast had destroyed it in order to fit his immense shoulders through.
It delighted a smile to the corners of my mouth.
I paused in the broken doorway, leaning into one of the deep gouges. Beyond, a single candle hung in a chandelier with spaces for twenty. Books were piled along the walls, many torn, and a wardrobe pressed against one side, doors hanging wide to reveal large jackets poorly sewn together. There were metal measuring cups, a magnifying glass, beakers and delicate scales waiting on a table, smelling sharp and pungent. A neat nest of mattress and blankets was tucked into one corner beneath an open window. Stars glittered distantly.
Unlike in my lovely room, there were no mirrors or vases of flowers here, no tea set or fine armoire. Several wine bottles perched atop various stacks of the books.
“Beauty,” he rumbled with clear surprise.
I turned my eyes on his, tilting back my head because he stood so near. Strangly uneven wire spectacles brightened his eyes, strapped in place with a ribbon tied all around his head. Magnified, his eyes shone deep blue like the midnight sky around the moon, black pupils gaping wide.
I braced for his anger at my trespass—finally he would be angry at me! We could properly fight, could scream and tear and maybe find some answers.
But he said nothing more. Only studied me in my fine dinner gown, all dawn-pink and cream that complemented the new pallor of my skin. In the mirror every morning I sneered at the paleness overtaking my once sun-kissed cheeks. No matter how much time I spent in the garden, this place sapped the life out of me.
The lichen tugging at his face twisted in some expression, yet I could still not read him.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he finally said.
“I want you to threaten.” I put my hands on his thick chest and shoved. He budged not at all. “I want you to roar,” I yelled.
His hands circled my wrists, those sharp thorns pricking through the silk sleeves. “I won’t.”
“Because you don’t have to,” I whispered, slumping. His grip on my arms held my body up, but not my eyelids. I closed them, drooping like a thirsty flower. I’d asked him tonight, What is your part? And he’d proposed. If that was his part, what was mine? To agree? And then I would still be his, still a prisoner, but of my own making. I snapped open my eyes. “I’m yours forever, no matter what I feel, no matter what I want. But I won’t fear you. I won’t love you, Beast. I won’t think of you at all.”
He released me so suddenly I stumbled and knocked into the wall. A cry, soft as a dove’s, echoed in my ears, but it could not have been him—my Beast surely could not make so pitiful a sound.
I tripped out of his room and ran down the stairs so hard my ankles jarred and I bruised my elbow against the dark curving wall.
XII
The Beast made it easy for me, in his own way. He continued to join me in the rose garden, but didn’t follow when I chose the topiary forest. I refused to enter the dining room, and he sent the ghosts to my rooms with my dinner. Days passed when I didn’t go to the roses at all. I looked around corners and up at darkened windows but never saw him, except once, when I found him studying a caterpillar’s cocoon so closely, with such concentration, he did not notice me. He did not move for nearly an hour, and neither did I, uncomfortably aware that this was what he did all day: study and stare, like a piece of nature himself. With the patience of moss.
I had no such patience.
But I could not stop thinking of his. How long had he been here, waiting and studying? I could not stop thinking of him here, alone.
The library felt cavernous now that I’d seen his intimate piles of books. The gardens were a wilderness without his silent shadow. As I tried to fill my days, instead my thoughts fled in every direction, leaving me with nothing but emptiness. If I didn’t talk to myself in the mirror, I heard no voices but for the nonsense whispers of my ghosts.
